


The One Where Erik Moves the Chess Piece

by Wolfsheart



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Chess, Gen, Old Men, Post-X3, San Francisco, parks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 03:17:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6103078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfsheart/pseuds/Wolfsheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the shining moment when Erik felt his powers returning, he encounters someone from a strange world in the park who offers insights and wisdom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where Erik Moves the Chess Piece

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alex_greene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alex_greene/gifts).



> Back during my fic time in what is now the tumbleweed and cricket-infested Livejournal, some friends gave me prompts for drabbles that didn't stay drabbles when I wrote them. One friend gave me Erik Lehnsherr and Gandalf, wanting to see if I'd slash them. I didn't. What came of it was this.

It was at the same park and at the same bench that Erik found himself, just as he had day in and day out since the fall at Alcatraz.  The day he’d nudged the chess piece those few millimeters had been a taste of sweetest ambrosia to his mind, and ever since, he’d come back, testing his slowly returning powers further in a place where he would look no more threatening than any of the old men in their caps and baggy golf pants looking for ways to spend their afternoons without wasting their pensions. 

So _the cure_ – he thought the word as if he spat out something bitter and viscous – wasn’t permanent.  He wondered if any of the others had discovered this yet.  Like that girl who’d betrayed herself and her kind all for want of _skintouch_.  Erik narrowed his eyes as he wiggled just the tip of his finger and inched the bishop three squares at once, which was more than he’d been able to do the day before.  This development brought a smile to the silver-haired man’s face before he leaned back in his seat and plucked the chess piece between his thumb and forefinger, returning it to its square.  He couldn’t help the wicked smile on his face when he thought about _how_ Rogue’s powers might re-manifest themselves, or more amusingly, _when_ , and he almost felt a sliver of pity for that boy and his lower extremities. 

Erik closed his blue eyes and rubbed his eyelids, feeling more tired than he cared to feel in the afternoon, especially when it was still early enough that the sky hadn’t pinked at all; sunset was still a couple of hours away, and he had no intention of returning home at the moment.  When he looked out at the trees on either side of him, he thought he saw a shimmer between two of them, causing him to arch a finely shaped eyebrow.  Attempting to focus again on the chess pieces in front of him, Erik _pushed_ the left knight up two and over one, only the damned thing toppled over before it completed the path he wanted it to. 

Pinching the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb, Erik decided to stop for the moment before he wore himself out entirely.  It would come.  He could feel it returning, the power.  It would come. 

He lifted his head, and once more the flash of something in the trees made him squint to look harder.  Was it some child with a mirror reflecting the sunlight?  Was it…another mutant?  Erik could just barely feel the hint of metal all around him, but at present, it was no more than the lightest caress of silk against his senses.  Not enough to even pinpoint what type of metal licked across his tongue.  Slowly, he rose from his seat, and adjusted the cap on his head before smoothing his hands down the front of his light jacket, for San Francisco evenings could sometimes be coolish enough to need one, then he tucked them into the pockets as he started to move toward the treeline and that flashing of light.

Erik had to admit, if only to himself, that he was a little frightened of what he would find there.  What if the X-Men had returned to find him and take him out while he was vulnerable?  If they had realized that the ‘cure’ was temporary, then perhaps they would want to get him out of the way while they could, especially with Charles...gone.  There was no one there to stop them if they wanted _him_ gone as well.  Still, he braced himself and tried to appear as just one of the myriad of older men occupying the park, nothing special, nothing different about him at all...

“Nothing special indeed,” purred a voice from somewhere to Erik’s left. 

A silver-gray eyebrow arched.  “Charles?” 

Who else could read his mind as easily as a book from a familiar library?

The voice was different, however.  Familiar but different.  It wasn’t _Charles’_ voice, and no, how could it be?  He’d seen what Jean did to Charles in her parents’ home – the Phoenix.  A menace to be sure.  _Should we have destroyed her when she was a child_ , he wondered, and not for the first time.  _She should have stayed buried under Alkalai Lake; we should have all torn our sleeves and let her go, damn that boy who wouldn’t leave his rock for her and move on._

A gentle shake of his head brought him back to the here and now where there was still no answer about the voice that had plucked his thought from his mind without even the caress he was used to from his best friend. 

“You are more special, _friend_ , than you might realize.  There is a great magic burgeoning inside you.” 

Erik turned then and looked in all directions to make sure that he wasn’t being followed, wasn’t being targeted, then his eyes once more fell toward the voice, and his feet moved him to a small grouping of oak trees.  As he squinted to take in what initially appeared to be the trick of the sun, his nostrils flared to breathe in the scent of apple blossom and some sort of tobacco –

_It’s not foul cigar smoke, so it’s not Logan_ –

“No, you don’t know me... _Erik_ ,” the voice said, drawing his name from his thoughts. 

For just a moment, Erik stilled and was afraid of this stranger knowing his name, as the superstitions of power-stealing and names flooded his mind.  _No, that’s ridiculous._ Just _superstition and nonsense.  You’re above hocus pocus, you’re above dybbuk and golem.  Erik, you know there are worse monsters than that, and you have, so far, managed to survive them all._

There was a warm chuckle that felt like having a drink with an old friend, that rustled the leaves above his head, that reverberated in a way that told the mutant he was closer.  Erik looked around and noticed the movement of something white and shimmering just ahead.  There was one telepath Erik knew who wore all white, and she could no doubt sound male, but he hadn’t seen her in years, and this didn’t seem to be her purview.  Why would she bother an old man like him? 

“I have survived monsters, too, Erik.  Perhaps we should sit down and talk about them.  You seem in need of an ear to listen.  You’re missing all the ones who have listened in the past.  You’re...missing the most important one.” 

Finally, Erik had to ask, “Who _are_ you?”  And suddenly, the trees seemed to shudder around him, the branches became a theatrical curtain drawing open, and he found himself staring into a pair of eyes like the blue of lapis lazuli...if the stone could smile and laugh.  They weren’t the bluest eyes he’d seen, but those were...those were...

“I’m a traveler and a friend of those Time often forgets until it has need of them,” the stranger dressed in long...white... _robes_ replied, and his smile reached right up to the corners of his eyes.  He looked old; he looked like an old hippie with his long white hair and ZZ Top beard, and he carried a staff that Remy LeBeau would covet.  And whatever apprehension Erik should feel fluttered away with the wind and leaves.  “Time hasn’t forgotten you like you think it has, my friend.  You have a magic about you that is needed.  That will be needed.  You’ll need to use it again.” 

Erik could taste the metal of the sword sheathed at this man’s side, and he now wondered if this hippie was a part of a roleplaying group or a historical recreation group or even some Renfaire that he hadn’t heard about.  How could he know about Erik’s ‘magic’, though? 

“You’re mistaken,” he tested.  “I have no magic.  I have nothing.  I’m just an old man.” 

Again, the hippie laughed, this time louder from the belly, a real guffaw that danced his mirth right up to those lapis eyes.  “You’re not an old man.  You’re young.  You haven’t even lived one quarter of my years, _youngling_ , and you aren’t ready for the White Ships yet, and I know magic...and I say you have magic.” 

Erik was hesitant.  His success with the chess pieces was small. 

“And your magic will return to you as strong as ever, and you must use it for the good of your people or else it will be a wasted magic.” 

He wanted to pinch himself to see if he was asleep or awake, but Erik knew better.  He’d experienced stranger in his life than this man, and something inside of him clicked and compelled him to believe. 

Six heartbeats passed before he finally repeated, “Who _are_ you?” 

The stranger in white walked forward and clapped a wrinkled hand onto Erik’s shoulder with a surprising strength.  “Just an old man with magic of his own, Erik, who has gone by many names.  Just as you have.  Greyhame...Stormcrow, Olórin and Incánus.  I’ve been called the Grey pilgrim and the White Rider...”  He could have gone on longer, but he casually slipped his arm around Erik’s shoulders and led him away from the park and toward a long line of shops and professional offices.  He gestured with his staff toward the kelly green sign with gold lettering that indicated that The Little Shamrock was their destination.  “...but you can buy me a pint and call me Gandalf.”  


End file.
